The Stars Shine On
by SeysaaHynn
Summary: John Myers returns from Antarctica and finds himself assigned to a new "monster", now that Hellboy, Liz and Abe have left. Snippets of the lives of John and Rose a.k.a Thorne. John/OC
1. Chapter 1

"And how is she?" John asked.

"Expensive", Manning said with a sigh and a huff, "and even worse for my health then the big red ape. Never thought I'd miss him."

Agent John Myers, freshly returned from Antarctica with barely anything than a budding depression to show for, tried not to panic at the thought of playing babysitter to another (even more) dangerous and troublesome supernatural being. He took a deep breath and remembered Clay's advice from a lifetime ago – don't stare.

And once again, it was hard not to. The new agent (Hellboy's replacement, he thought and for some odd reason felt his stomach full of stones) was a short and stocky girl of about twenty. She sat at a small, ornate table in the library, writing something in a planner with a shiny black fountain pen. She had brown hair pulled back into a sleek ponytail, strong eyebrows, a slightly upturned nose and full lips perfectly painted with a true red lipstick. She wore a conservative-looking black dress (loosely fitting but not sloppy, with three-quarter length sleeves and a high neckline) and a single massive white opal encased in barbaric silverwork on her right index finger. Without looking in his direction, she put her pen away, closed her planner and stood. The dress was quite short actually, but her strong, shapely legs were covered by opaque black tights. At Manning's cough she turned and surveyed John with her green eyes. He held her gaze till his eyes started watering. He wished she would blink already; she was giving him the creeps. After what seemed like hours she diverted her attention to the Director. "I don't need a liaison," she said. Her voice was lower than most women's and slightly raspy. He liked it though – it was firm and grounding, substantial, like truth. Manning looked like he would like to argue and force his decision on her, but she said, with the air of a kindergarten teacher making peace between squabbling toddlers, that she needed a partner.

"Alright, partner it is. John Meyers – Rose Villari, codename Thorne, our resident monster (her nose crinkled in disgust at the adjective), shake hands." Still eyeing Manning like he was covered in dung, she descended from the platform and extended her hand to John, who panicked and wondered if he was supposed to kiss it; his palm was sweaty and sticky in a nanosecond. She squeezed it gently and gestured towards one of the chairs. "Agent Thorne doesn't spend that much time here. But everywhere she goes, you go." She didn't say anything, but it was clear what the Director meant. Being her partner was no different than her persistent nanny.

Manning excused himself and left. John shifted nervously in the silence. "I told him his posture was bad," she said "but now it's even worse. He looks like he has a whole arsenal of cleaning utensils up his ass." That was much better. "I think he likes you even less than Hellboy." "That's to be expected. I am not only a – what's his denomination? - bad bitch, but also a very independent one." She chuckled darkly and resumed her place at the desk, where John noticed an e-book reader and a muted leopard clutch. Nothing that had belonged to professor Broom and the others had been disturbed; Abe's books were still on the page he had left them. The desk and two assorted chairs were a new addition, but blended perfectly. "I've been to Antarctica as well," she said as he took a seat beside her. "Not at the BPRD station, way before that."

John fidgeted with his shirt cuff. Even seated, her back was stiffly upright, and he could swear that underneath the table her legs weren't crossed but pressed together and leaned on one side like first ladies' at formal meetings. He fidgeted some more. The silence didn't seem to bother her; she had gone back to writing.

"I am 65 years old, if you're wondering and scared to ask."

John almost jumped. "I… Well. Ummm…"

"Sentences, John. I may have a wide range of abilities; however mind-reading is not among them."

"I don't mean to be rude, but… what… are you?"

She smiled. "I am what they call a Brave, a being empowered by the many spirits and deities of nature. I will live a very long time, unless I am killed, of course. Those like me reach physical adulthood in a year. We are given another year to learn the basics – reading, writing, calculus, and then the training begins. 49 years – 7 for each of the 7 continents. I spent an extra 14 in deep space."

"Like, aliens and stuff?"

"Yes."

John leaned forward eagerly.

"And how was it?"

"Disconcerting. Sometimes I thought I never left Terra, other times it seemed like a completely different universe." She smiled in reminiscence. "I'm happy I did it though. In the end, it really helped, just like he said. Would you like some coffee?" Taken aback, John snapped to attention. "Yes, I'll be right onto it. What would you like?" "I'll tell you when we get there. I won't miss a chance to show off this beauty", she said, her palm travelling from her breast (bad John) to the hemline of her dress, pulling at the fabric slightly. "I just got it. And you'll have to excuse my vanity. I am a woman after all; comes with the territory." She bent down carefully to wipe a microscopic smudge on her left shoe – expensive-looking black leather platform pumps, and he wondered how much exactly they were paying her. "Shall we? And I must warn you, I don't drive. I also get car sick, so I always take the front seat. I hope you like trains, because we'll be using them a lot. I like small town train stations, I think they're romantic." John mumbled something about a moped. She nodded. Didn't laugh or say anything. Much, much later, after they had averted a good number of Apocalypses, he mustered the courage to ask her about that. She told him that she knew about his parents and that his fear was perfectly normal. That was her staple – understand everybody. She had several degrees (most of them incredibly obscure or useless) and psychology was among them.

They went to a nice café and had coffee and some excellent chocolate cake. Rose liked sweets, and she liked to indulge herself, hence the extra pounds.

Rose's knowledge in the monsters they usually dealt with was nowhere near as extensive as Hellboy's was, so most of his duties revolved around research (inhaling centuries-old dust), but her fighting was much more polished and effective. There seemed to be no limits to her endurance; she could probably run for days or not eat for months or float in space unprotected and count the stars, but she glared at any kind of weights like they'd just insulted her mother. She always had a plan, allies when needed and plenty of magical weapons, though her personal favorite was a heavy spiked mace that seemed to possess a brain as it moved and even fought by itself. Usually, her arrival at the BRPD was signaled by the mace which came flying in her wake and melted into the wall by the main door.

It should be easy to be friends with her, considering she wouldn't hit him and they did almost everything together, and at first they had connected fast, but there was something that made John feel awkward. Maybe it was her faraway expression, maybe her shrink-ish tendencies (would you like to talk about it? No!) or maybe her overall old-world strangeness. She was modest and polite, rarely wore pants and even her swearing was elegant.

Maybe it was the fact that she didn't need anyone.


	2. Chapter 2

He learned all about her origin when she had had her join-the-other-side moment. They were battling evil fairies in Wales. She was anyway, dispatching a group of assorted women-warriors (a troll, two nymphs, an elf, two Fayes) with such crazy wrestling moves that John had to fight the urge to cheer (not that he watched Wrestling or anything). Hellboy was bringing the rear, cursing as he shot down banshees. He was angry, and John couldn't blame him. His children were missing and by all appearances they had been spirited away by a lady-of-the-lake wannabe. Thorne's magical weapon of choice passed John with a sinister howl, and stopped in her hand. They were close, judging by the large number of mountain trolls heading their way. Thorne ran to meet them, followed closely by Hellboy, and a crunch let John know that a certain stone had had been the first to claim a life. The mace made somewhat of a sloshing sound as it tore through flesh.

He gripped the handle of the magic sword she had gotten him for his birthday. "Something special for such the big reminder that you probably wasted the best part of your life", she had smirked. He dashed forward, severing a Faye's head and ducking a troll's club (tree trunk). He had changed a lot, so his thirtieth birthday found him an experienced and strong warrior, able to keep up with the marathons Thorne called morning jogs. But he still had his awkwardness attacks, because too much change is never good.

The big bad finally showed up – a vaguely woman-shaped mass of swirly fog and tendrils of water. "Give them back," Hellboy snarled.

"I cannot," the clear yet childish voice answered. "They belong with us now."

Hellboy's (predictable) answer was a bullet. The thing wavered and the bullet, caught in a tendril of water, disintegrated.

"Do you love your children?" It asked, slowly turning to look at Thorne.

"Damn straight I do. Give them back!"

"I also love them. I can give them immortality and absolute freedom. What can you do for them? Take them amongst humans, to be hated and feared?"

A stone dagger embedded itself in her shoulder; she let out a pained shriek and curled. "You should understand. You know the laws!" she hissed, and a white spray of mist hit Thorne full on. "You are one of us. You should defend us." John took a step back and Hellboy put his stone hand on his shoulder as if to steady him. Thorne's skin was graying and cracking, her carefully braided hair was turning into coiled roots, her eyes were hardening and turning into lusterless jade and before they could consider doing something, she was a living, moving granite statue. She dropped her mace which melted into the ground and disappeared. Then she sent Hellboy flying into the lake with one punch. She turned towards John. Somewhere in his mind a distracted voice suggested a prayer. She lifted her hand, but her mace flew out of the ground and administered her a solid uppercut of its own accord, then disappeared again. She reeled and a strong gust of wind made her loose her balance. A blinding flash and a lightning bolt hit the vapor creature; she gave a piercing shriek. Hellboy had climbed out of the lake, but it wasn't his hand steadying John – it was a wild-looking red haired man's. He tackled Thorne and covered her body with his, immobilizing her. Then a whisper - John grabbed Hellboy and started around the lake to a cluster of rocks, because the strange man's old and wise voice was guiding him towards the children. There was a small cave, and inside little Holly was crying hysterically. Hellboy fell to his knees and embraced her, but she wouldn't stop.

"Ro-wan", she gasped and sobbed, "he di-sa-ppeared, they made him… they… wind!" Her crying turned into howling, echoing deafeningly in the cave. Outside the storm was raging, and John though he could hear echoes of traded blows. The red-haired man came in a flash of lightning, carrying a motionless, but human again Thorne. He sat her down and placed his hand on the child's trembling shoulder. "Listen," he said. He had a beautiful, strong, rumbling voice, like the rain lulling you to sleep. The sobbing stopped. "Rowan. Oh, Rowan, I'm so sorry," Hellboy whispered. "Fear not. You child is strong and one day he will return to you. Until then, he is free, and never alone." It was oddly comforting, and everything seemed alright, like Rowan had just left for boarding school. Holly's grip on her father loosened; by the time it started to rain and the red-haired man had left, she was asleep in her father's arms. Thorne was awake and silent, staring into nothing with a blank expression.

"I'm sorry," she said finally.

Hellboy's petting flesh hand stopped on Holly's back.

"I'm so sorry."

John wanted to say something, buy all his words died in his throat. After an eternity, he reached, but didn't touch her.

Much, much later, months later actually, when they were seated on the large couch in Hellboy's living room, watching late-night old movies and munching on biscotti, did she bring the subject again. Liz shifted in her husband's lap, Abe straightened, John tensed. "I have told you, that Braves draw their power from nature. Some, like me, are actually born from stones shaped into human form by the wind. We obey the Guardian Gods of the four Conjunction Points – the passages between this world and the spirit world. The one who helped us was Gebeleizis, the God of Wind and Storm. He's a Guardian of the Mountain Point."

She paused.

"Rowan will become a Brave too. It will take him about three more years to become solid again, but he will have human form. Completely human." They nodded. There was something comforting and trustworthy in Thorne's - Rose's measured tone and calm expression. "But there will always be the chance of him reverting back to a disembodied wind spirit. As Hellboy and John witnessed, the Faye Queen at the lake was able to make me go back to being" – she took a deep breath – "a golem."

"I… I hate it." She was looking down, her hands twisting absently on the corner of the oversized shirt she was wearing. "I have no thought, no will. I just don't know and I don't want to _not know_." She took a deep breath and continued, this time looking at Hellboy and Liz. "But the Gods will protect him."


	3. Chapter 3

They got closer on the Island. They spent a week in a small house in a narrow street, where they shared a stuffy attic room. The humid heat was almost unbearable. She wore denim cut-offs, and lightweight tees, and her hair under a cheap bandana as she worked in the bodega downstairs, preparing spicy dishes. Her cheeks were flushed and her skin was tanned and sticky with sweat and the vapors from the kitchen. At night they hunted the vampire with their landlord, a tall and well muscled man whose skin had the ebony tint of the African savannah. She has known him for quite some time, and that brings a painful twist in John's stomach. He doesn't hate the man – it's nice to hang out with a guy for a change – but John just keeps getting that weird feeling.

The vampire is beautiful. Her skin has an opalescent golden tint to it, and her features are cat-like and perfect. She kisses John and leads him outside of the house and away from the mounds of freshly-dug earth. He's floating.

He feels strange, elated. He takes deep breaths, but the sensation doesn't fade. He's lounging on a wicker loveseat covered in ornate satin pillows and takes deep, lazy drags of a cigarette. The smoke is fascinating, as it curls and floats away, ethereal and blue. Busuli, that's his name, enters the den, narrow hips swaying, ebony skin glistening. His shirt clings to his heaving chest as he sits down and gently takes the cigarette. There is a red mark on his neck. An image floats in John's brain, it should be bad but it isn't – Busuli and Rose, kissing, bodies pressed close, hands searching, nails digging into shimmering skin. He shudders. Rose has been eating nothing but fruit; she should taste sweet and refreshing. His hand travels up Busuli's chest, up his collarbone, around his neck, caressing the back of his bald head. His eyes are impossibly dark and smoke curls around his full lips, tainting her taste. John pulls him down and kisses him, slowly.

"You cheated on me, darling" she says barely containing her laughter. John blinks as the feeble stream of sunlight passing the dirty window sends daggers trough his brain. He curses and falls out of bed. "I had no idea you were…"

"Well, I'm not anymore."

"What?"

"What!"

"What are you talking about?"

"Asleep, Rose. I'm not asleep anymore. But I was."

"I meant gay."

He looks up at her smirking face.

"I'm not gay!" he splutters.

"Oh come on. I saw you."

"Saw what?"

"Kissing Busuli."

John stares, mortified, and she is, for once, at a loss – should she laugh or not? "You were drunk?" she offers after a while. But John doesn't drink, they both know it. Silence.

But it doesn't take her long to notice the marks, although they are disguised by hickeys. They go to the house full of mounds of freshly dug earth. The vampire isn't pretty anymore, not when Rose is next to him with her furrowed brows and her spicy smell and her measured heartbeat. The vampire lunges and Rose catches her and slams her to the ground. She gets up and Rose hits her fast, jaw-liver-jaw. Bones crack. She gets a few punches in, but Rose digs her heels in the soft earth, grabs an arm and breaks it, then puts her down again and with one punch shatters her ribcage. Busuli sticks a wooden stake in the already failing heart. John is choking. He's surrounded by graves, tiny, tiny children's graves.

They spend another three days so Busuli's grandmother, withered and shriveled by two centuries of fighting, can force the vampire's poison out of John's body. He has to drink a horrible-tasting mixture of plants, venoms and powdered stones which makes him sick, but he doesn't complain. Rose feeds him a chilled mixture of yogurt, salt and mint which eases some of the pain.

They leave by a boat which takes them to a Canadian port. They go to a cabin in the woods which are pleasantly chilly and beautifully colored in red and gold. When he finally falls asleep, it's to the rhythm of measured heartbeat.


	4. Chapter 4

Contrary to popular belief, mysterious, calm and cool heroes are not lone wolf orphans. Thorne (Rose, Rose, Rose) was actually part a very large family and seemed to have more cousins that an Italian mobster. He kept thinking of The Godfather when she explained that everyone referred to her as "cousin Rose from America" even though "great-aunt Rose from America" would be more accurate. She asked him to join her to a wedding once. It was a Latin affair - boisterous, glamorous, dramatic, over-the-top. He followed her meekly as she hurried to the florist's, to the church, to the dress-maker's; he held her brushes and pallets as she did make-up after make-up, on the bride, the godmother, the bridesmaids, the mothers and aunts, he helped her stitch hems, he served drinks and elaborately decorated cakes. He helped her put on her petticoat and dress and tried not to stare at her fancy old-school underwear (corset, lace panties, garter belt, thigh-highs trimmed with lace, bad, bad John) and almost blushed as she fixed his tie. She frowned when she heard traditional music outside. "I swear," she grumbled slipping into her dainty gold wedding-shoes, "when I get married, take my purse please John, I will gather all the people who called me as a bridesmaid" - she folded the list of things to do and stuffed it in her corset – "and force _them_ to follow _me_ in uncomfortable shoes for 5 hours! You take the champagne, I'll take the cakes. Elisa!" She took off in search of the young girl to assign her stuff to do.

Wedding was complicated – groom's house – godparents' house – bride's house - Wedding House (Jungle House. An elderly judge performed the ceremony between giant palm trees), photographs in a small park full of roses, church (a whole hour's worth of slow Orthodox service in an ancient church. John gawked at the smoky paintings that covered the walls and ceiling like an enraptured child seeing cartoons for the first time), more photos, and then venue. The music was too loud, the food was too much. They sat at a table with Rose's teenage cousins, who exchanged texts instead of talking to each other and John felt somewhat like a pedophile surrounded by three underage cleavages and a thigh-high slit. A small girl stole the bride's shoe and was rewarded a white kitten for its retrieval, the newlyweds danced to _Forever and a Day_. By midnight they had taken care of a haunting and sat tired and sore at the vacated table. They had spent another three excruciating hours at the event before they were allowed to go to the hotel and sleep. No fun, but John kept something – a badly taken photo of them dancing to a slow song, tightly embraced. He remembers his hand on her lower back, calluses catching on the dainty silk oh her dress. He remembers her head on his chest. He remembers her palms spread on his back. He remembers the song – _Meu Grande Amor_, it's not his style but it's been on his iPod ever since.


	5. Chapter 5

Life is very simple – if you are a normal, hopelessly boring person. The more interesting you are, the more complicated your life becomes.

You see, a normal person would spend Saturday evening dancing, or taking a walk, or watching TV, maybe working a respectable and normal job. But not Rose; no, Rose was bundled up in worn and raggedy clothes on a bench in a charity hospital waiting-room, enduring the harsh looks of the reception nurse, ears strained in search of a particular scratching noise.

It was almost midnight, and sleep was starting to tug at her eyelids. The nurse was getting more and more impatient, rapping her bubble-gum pink talons on the counter. Rose had always liked the sound of long, hard nails hitting things, and eyed her own, painfully short and fraying at the ends ones. Life was so unfair.

The particular scratching noise, made by a forest crone's iron-clawed feet as it scuttled along the hallways looking for babies, its preferred food, reached Rose's ears and she tore down the hallway, heart beating so fast it echoed like wails in her ears; she didn't notice the nurse who dashed down a side corridor, a red glint in her frantic eyes.

A forest crone was an ugly, rotting, vaguely human creature wrapped in ragged funeral veils whose claws were cast in metal, usually iron, sometimes, copper, rarely silver or gold. The more precious the metal, the stronger the specimen. This one's were iron, vaguely tinged with rust, which meant it was starving. Rose frowned as she cut it off. That was good – it was weak – and bad at the same time – it was desperate. She took out a cheap hunting knife. The creature tried to run past her, but she managed to kick it hard in the ribs, throwing it against the wall. How nice it would be, if they just stayed down, Rose didn't think, because the forest crone didn't give her time. She jumped back up and attacked, so she barely had time to deflect the claws and give back a not particularly effective uppercut. In the next moment, it might be over. The sharp claws would sever her jugular and she wouldn't have to think about rent, exams, loneliness, even all the defenseless children. But a white blur came and sent the foul thing flying with an over-enthusiastic body slam. The nurse took a shaky step back and then another, realizing there was now a supernatural monster-shaped dent in the opposite wall. Rose rushed over and with minor struggling managed to stick the knife in its left eye-socket. Fat maggots fell from the hole when she removed it. She gagged and pointed the knife at the nurse, who raised her arms in a pacifying gesture.

"Let me go grab a body bag" she said, eyeing the corpse who was starting to stink.

Rose stared at her nails. They were still short, but no longer jagged as she'd managed to suppress her nail-biting habit. The fraying was hidden under a shiny coat of pretentious red polish. The waitress had long, pointy and shimmering hunter green ones to match her khaki peasant dress. Rose carefully avoided her eyes when she deposited a pot of tea and two cups on the table. John was, as usual, late. Usually she didn't mind, taking the time to read or stare philosophically out the window, but today she felt her stomach full of restless insects. Not butterflies mind you, because you get those when you're in love, or waiting for you first child to be born, or something equally happiness-inducing. The restless insects you get when you're on a stakeout, or squaring off a monster before a fight, or waiting for the dust to settle. She tapped her foot impatiently. The waitress gave her a mildly interested look. Now Rose was angry. She was acting unprofessionally, and after half a century's worth of service that is pretty much the only thing that gives you a proper downwards jolt. Ugh. Now she was thinking Britishly. Well, at one point we all become British. Lookit that Rosie, yer precious fiery Latin blood's lookin' slower an' colder than the Thames that time the Indian magicked it to Patagonia.

She snorted beside herself. Funny how no Londoner noticed that one. Even I noticed, Rose thought ruefully, and I'm a rock. And here's Johnny!

He detangled himself from his heavy coat and what looked like a lonely granny's winter's worth of knitted scarves, sat down and inhaled half of his tea. Rose watched him with thinly pressed lips. He ignored the waves of disapproval and dug into his cake.

"Well?" he finally said.

She shrugged, and got up.

One of the perks of working with her was the total absence of garbage trucks, however hi-tech they might be. They got fancy cars with chauffeurs instead, because Rose had no patience for big city cab drivers. They settled against the black leather seats, but still it was a while before she spoke.

"The waitress. With the green nails. Did you get a good look at her?"

"Yes, I… It's not her, is it?"

"Let me put it like this. Forest crones are very rare, and tied to their home. They rarely attack village children because mothers know how to protect them. When they turn up in cities, they've either been dug up from death by construction workers or they are desperately hungry. I've only dealt twice with them – once in 1968 and once in 1991. And both times, guess who was there?"

"The waitress."


End file.
